Titanic - Across the North Atlantic
by peytonrm
Summary: It's nearly a year after the Titanic's maiden voyage turned fatal. Rose Dewitt Bukater, now known as Rose Dawson, wakes up from a nightmare in the comfort of her new home. Her life has changed forever, but she has not given up.
1. Chapter 1

April 5th, 1913.

Rose

It was quiet. So quiet - in fact - that it was almost deafening. And it was dark. Regardless of how clear the night had been, Rose could not distinguish sky and sea. She saw nothing but absolute darkness. Maybe it was the cold. Does cold have an effect on one's eyesight? Possibly in extremities… but then again, this night was exactly that. The wind felt like it cut through her skin and ate at the tips of her fingers. Finally, Rose's eyes seemed to be adjusting. Her fingers clenched tightly around the wooden edge of lifeboat 14. Her frozen hair stuck to her cheeks, and when she moved her head to look at the pitch black sea beneath her, she could hear the sound of it cracking.

Suddenly, she heard a faint call. Rose immediately turned her head and stared into the darkness. ''Hello?'', she yelled. It remained quiet for a while but then, there it was again. Somebody was desperately calling for help.

''He's alive'', Rose whispered to herself, her eyes widened. ''He's still alive! We have to turn around. Turn around, now! We have to help-''. When she turned to look at the seaman manning her lifeboat, he wasn't there. In fact - nobody was. The lifeboat was empty. It was just her.

A breeze of North Atlantic wind hit her from the front and she immediately turned her face, clenching her fingers around the sleeves of her coat. For a second, she thought she misheard- but there it was. Once more. A call in the distance, and Rose heard it louder this time.

''Hold on!'', she screamed. She quickly sat herself down, took the wooden paddles in her hands and tightened her frozen fingers around them as best she could.

The calls in the distance grew louder. More terrified.

Rose struggled with the paddles for a while and her frustration outgrew her fear, but once she got the hang of it and started moving across the pitch black sea, towards the terrified screams of a drowning person, her fear reclaimed its position in her throat.

''Hold on! Please!'', Rose yelled, paddling as fast as her frostbitten hands would allow her. ''I'm coming!''.

The sea was completely calm. Not a single wave disturbed her journey into the darkness. She was gliding through the water, but no matter how fast she paddled, the screaming only seemed to move further and further away until at some point- it stopped. Rose let go of the paddles, gripped the side of her lifeboat and stared across the water, trying desperately to see anything at all in this curtain of blackness. ''Hello?!'', she screamed.

Her voice echoed back towards her. Nothing.

''I'm here! Swim towards my voice!'', she screamed.

Nothing.

Rose's heart was racing, it felt like she'd pass out any moment. The cold had taken ahold of her bones. Every move she made cost her ten times more energy than it normally would, and she no longer felt her toes or fingertips. Defeated, she sat back down on the wooden bench. Tears welled up in her eyes and her bottom lip trembled softly.

''HELLO?!'', she tried once more. ''Can anybody hear me?! Is anyone out there?!''.

Her voice cracked. She tried asking again. Begging, even, for somebody out there to save, but her voice faded until it was nothing more than a whisper. God, she realized. I must be dying. This is it, isn't it? Nobody around to help, nobody around to help _her._ She was completely abandoned, sitting alone in sub-zero temperatures – in complete darkness, waiting. For what? And then she cried. She couldn't remember crying at all this night, but now she knew. She couldn't keep her promise to Jack. She was going to die here.

Rose pulled her coat tighter around her - though it gave her no comfort at all. She pulled her knees up to her chest in an attempt to stay warm, her arms wrapped around them and her face buried beneath the frozen strands of her hair.

'' _Going up.. she goes, up she goes  
Balance yourself like a bird on a beam  
In the air.. she goes..  
there she goes''._

Rose whispered the tune to herself, over and over again, until she felt her eyelids growing heavier. She didn't fight it. She knew there was no use. All she wanted was for it to be over soon and secretly – she prayed it would be painless. ''Come.. Josephine, in my flying machine'', she whispered.

And then from out the darkness, another voice.

'' _Up, she goes, up she goes''._

Rose's eyes flew open and she sat upright immediately, her heart beating in her throat. That wasn't her. Somebody else is here. Hope grew back into her heart and she immediately grabbed the side of the boat, leaning over the edge to get a better look of the ocean's surface. ''Who's there?!'', she screamed.

''Come.. Josephine'', the voice sang.

Rose suddenly felt threatened. This voice. She recognized it, though her frozen brain wouldn't allow her to realize who it belonged to. Fear crept back into her heart and she slowly backed away from the edge. ''Hello?'', she asked, quietly.

''In… my'', the voice continued.

Rose frantically looked around her, searching for a shimmer of somebody's life vest. ''Who are you?!'', she demanded. She managed to make it sound angry but in all truthfulness, she was terrified. Then, right next to her ear, a soft voice whispered: ''flying machine''. Rose screamed and she turned quickly, but it was too late. She stared straight into a pair of dead, pale blue eyes as somebody tried climbing into the lifeboat with her.

''NO!'', she screamed as she jumped backwards, nearly falling into the water. ''SOMEBODY HELP!''.

Suddenly – she saw another, appearing from underneath the black sea, clawing at the edge of the lifeboat. She felt as if she were going to faint and she hoped that she would. Let this be it, she begged. Let this be the end then, damnit!

The corpses made their way into the lifeboat and stared at her. Blankly - their eyes an unnatural shade of silver and blue.

''Oh God'', she whispered, crawling backwards, towards the other end of the boat.

''I didn't do anything!'', she begged. ''Please, leave me! GO!''.

Her back hit a wooden railing. She was cornered like an animal and there was no place to hide. The corpses stumbled towards her, trying to remain their balance in this unstable little boat. From the corners of her eyes, Rose saw one of the paddles. She screamed loudly and went for it, throwing her body towards it, her fingers reaching for the handle. And then it happened. Right as her fingers touched the pinewood of the paddle, a hand reached from out of the water, grabbing at her wrist and gripping it tightly. Its fingers were blue and colder than even she was. On its wrist, it wore a single, broken handcuff and at that moment – she realized.

Rose's eyes rolled back. She felt her bones lose all of their remaining strength and she stumbled backwards, falling over the railing - crashing into the icy, black water.

A loud scream escaped from her throat. Rose's eyelids flew open and she immediately sat upright, her back and forehead covered in a cold layer of sweat. She gasped for air, placing her hand on her heart to make sure it was still beating, and then she looked around the room. There was nobody there, no one but her. It was dark, but the moonlight came in from an open window and allowed her to see everything she recognized.

Her red velveteen chair, her books. She was home.

Rose took another deep breath to calm herself down and glanced at her wrist. Nothing. No marks. Just her own, pale skin. She kicked the duvet aside, set her feet on the ground and pushed herself off the bed. One of her bedroom windows had blown open and the crisp air of an early spring morning softly stroked her face. As she closed it, she listened to the familiar sound of the wood creak and for a second, she caught her reflection looking back at her.

''It's all right'', she promised herself. ''He's not here''.

She felt a single tear drip from the corner of her eye and swiftly wiped it away. Just in time because at that moment, her bedroom door opened and her maid Jenny rushed in, a candlestick held high above her head.

''Miss Rose, are you all right?'', Jenny asked, quickly glancing through the room.

''I am'', Rose promised. ''I had another nightmare. That is all''.

Jenny lowered the candlestick and sat it down on a pile of books, quickly walking towards Rose and grabbing her hand.

''Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?'', she asked, her grey eyes filled with worry. Rose shook her head and softly squeezed Jenny's hand. ''It's all right''.

Jenny had been working for Rose ever since she arrived in New York. She knew about what she had experienced, but she was the only one. Nobody else was supposed to know of Miss Rose's terrible encounter on the Atlantic. Just the two of them. Jenny was extremely loyal to Miss Rose. She felt like they were family, though of course, she was still just a maid. But, much like a sister, she worried about the woman she so loyally served. This must have been the fourth, maybe even the fifth night that Rose had woken up screaming, awakened by a terrible dream. Jenny suspected it had something to do with Titanic's anniversary. It had been nearly a year since the sinking of the unsinkable ship and the death of Rose's true love.

Jenny glanced at the clock. A little over two in the morning. ''Well'', she whispered with a smile, locking eyes with Rose. ''It is now officially April 5th''. Rose knew what she was getting at and clenched her jaws together. ''Happy birthday, Miss''.

Rose nodded and stared out the window - into the star filled night sky. ''Thank you'', she whispered, a careful smile spreading across her lips. 


	2. Chapter 2

April 8th, 1913

Rose

On the morning of Tuesday April 8th, Rose headed through the busy streets of New York towards Levain's Boulangerie, her place of work. She worked – but not for the money. After selling the Heart of the Ocean, Rose bought herself a small but comfortable home, a new wardrobe and the company of a maid. Frankly, Rose Dewitt Bukater, now known as Rose Dawson, was set for life. No – she needn't work a day. The reason for her employment at the bakery was simply for the company. Because she wanted to be around people, even if she didn't really talk to them. Because she wanted to see how people lived, in spite of what had happened nearly a year ago. Because she wanted to have a purpose. A reason to get out of bed in the morning. Most of all – she wanted to see that it was still possible to lead a normal life.

When she turned the corner on Elridge Street, Rose's eyes fell on a small boy – standing in the middle of the street, holding up a newspaper. His cheeks were dirty, his clothes too and she could spot a hole in his shoe from a few feet away. Rose suspected he wasn't yet ten. However, it wasn't so much the boy's scrubby appearance that caught her eye, but the newspaper in his hands. In big, bold letters the headline screamed: ''TITANIC TRAVESTY: THE SURVIVORS SPEAK''. Beneath it a grainy picture of the Titanic in Southampton, minutes before it left on its first and last voyage.

The boy had apparently interpreted the look on her face to be interest, because he came running towards her, a hopeful smile on his face. ''G'morning, miss! Fresh paper?''. Rose stared at the picture and was, only for a slight moment, taken aback by the sudden sadness she felt. ''Miss?''. The boy looked at her, his eyebrows raised. Rose quickly forced a smile on her face and shook her head. ''No thank you'', she whispered. The boy lowered his hand in disappointment and Rose couldn't help but feel bad. She knew that he struggled to make money – she could see the exhaustion in his face. ''What's your name?'', Rose asked, visibly surprising the young boy. His dirty cheeks seemed to blush, only for a second, before he answered. ''William, miss''. Rose smiled, took a dollar from her pocket and put it in the boys hand. ''Take good care of yourself, William''.

The boy's eyes lit up, a big smile appeared on his dirty face and he happily exclaimed a ''Much thanks!'' before running off. Rose watched him reclaim his spot on the street – filled with fresh hope.

Once she arrived at the bakery, Mr. Oliver Levain was already attending to the first customers. Rose greeted him, hung her coat behind the counter and quickly put her red hair in a braid. Mr. Oliver was big on hygiene in his bakery. Understandable, of course.

''Good morning, sweet Rose!'', a familiar voice called from the passage above her. Rose looked up and saw Mrs Levain's brown eyes glistening.

''A good morning, Alma!'', Rose smiled back.

Mr and Mrs Levain were in their late fifty's. They'd moved to New York from France a long time ago, though their French accent had never completely faded. After moving, they invested all their money in a French bakery and they'd worked there ever since. No sons, no daughters. Just a small, delicious smelling shop in one of the richest cities in the world. That was their legacy.

''You're late!'', Alma chuckled as she made her way downstairs, her grey hair tucked neatly beneath a linen scarf.

''Yes, well – I was stopped by a paperboy''.

Alma softly shook her head and brushed a loose hair from Rose's face.

''Ah, yes. The anniversary of the majestic Titanic. It's all over the city. Truly- everywhere! D'you know what? They have flyers hanging around.. with the names of all the people that died. Pictures too! Mainly of the rich people – but still. The scumbags! Imagine if that was your family! It's absolutely vile''.

Rose simply smiled.

''It's sad – don't you think? The exploitation of the survivors. The usage of their stories. It must be traumatizing to be haunted by people, all wanting to hear the most terrible tales. I don't think anybody could ever truly recover from an event like that – but it certainly doesn't help when people keep reminding them!''.

Rose had never told anybody apart from Jenny about her voyage on the Titanic. She wanted it to be over with. Forgotten. She hated when people treated her like a fragile little bird and she knew that if she told anyone about her experiences, she'd be known all over the city as ' _'that_ girl''. It would no longer matter who she was. All that mattered was that she was damaged.

''Yes'', Rose whispered. ''It's horrible''.

When she noticed the concerned, almost suspicious look in Alma's eyes, Rose quickly recovered. ''I suppose that's just human nature'', she added. Alma, satisfied with the response, nodded immediately and shuffled her way into the baking area. Rose swallowed hard, clenched her jaws together and decided that she was not going to allow the sadness. Not today. Not tomorrow. She'd made a promise to Jack and she intended on keeping it. She was going to be happy.

The bell above the door rang. Footsteps across the wooden floor.

''Hello''.

Rose looked up and smiled – untroubled and kind. ''Hello! How may I help you?''. 

Jack

Meanwhile in Brooklyn, on the other side of the island, a young man was making his way across Atlantic Avenue – a Silverpoint sketchbook under his arm and a cigarette between his fingers. The pack he'd just bought hidden away in the pocket of his tweed pants – his other hand wrapped around it.

When he blew the smoke from his lungs and into the sky – he caught the gaze of a young, rich woman. She was just leaving the tailor. The way she looked at him was with fascination. The young man couldn't help but smile, took another drag of his cigarette and kept walking – towards the edge of the park.

The woman was rightfully fascinated. Although the young man was clearly a lower class citizen – he walked with confidence. He walked like he owned the streets, like nothing could touch him. His blue greyish eyes were sharp. His smile witty. There was no hesitation in the way he moved.

''Aye, Jack!'', a loud voice called out.

The young man smiled widely, dropped his cigarette on the street beneath him and gave his friend a clap on the shoulder – having him almost fall of his seat.

''How's it going?'', Jack asked. He pulled a wooden stool from out a big bush, sat down and slapped his sketchbook onto his knees.

''Eh – it's goin'''.

Pete Barreyfield, a man is his early twenties with nothing more to his name than a stool to sit on and the clothes on his back, had quickly become Jack Dawson's best friend. Like Jack, he too was an artist. A lesser one, but still. The young men made their money by sitting by the edge of the park, drawing the portraits of young women they managed to lure in with a charming comment and a mysterious smile. For every portrait they drew, they asked ten pennies. Five each. It wasn't much, but enough to buy the boys a meal and a pack of cigs.

''I've drawn two so far'', Pete said as a sigh escaped his throat. He looked up at Jack, his dark eyes showing signs of mischief, and he smiled wide.

''What happened to yesterday's lady? The brunette?''.

Jack laughed and shook his head. ''Nothing''.

''Ah, come on, man! Don't lie to me. I'm the only friend you've got!''.

It hadn't been the first time that one of Jack's customers had asked for a private session and he suspected it wouldn't be the last. One of the ladies he drew yesterday showed a particular interest in Jack. So much so – that she requested he come by her house to draw her again.

''Did ya sleep with the gal or not?'', Pete asked, his impatience growing as he moved closer to his friend's face.

Jack moved his face even nearer, until the tips of their noses nearly touched and then wacked his friend across the head. ''Not''.

Pete rolled his eyes, leaned back and shook his head in disbelief. ''You're too professional''.

Jack simply shrugged his shoulders, put the cardboard sign in front of them and smiled. ''Well, that's my job''.

It wasn't _just_ his job. It was much more than that, but Pete didn't have to know. So many times, his friend asked him about the drawings in his sketchbook. The almond shaped eyes, the full lips, the curls falling across a beautiful face, they were all strange to him. Pete thought Jack secretly had a girl somewhere. He'd given up asking about her when Jack stopped drawing her. He'd never tell him who she was, but she was important enough for his friend to keep the drawings.

When Jack first arrived in New York, he was a broken man. He had always managed to live alone on the streets, moving from park to park and from doorstep to doorstep. He'd always been perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but he'd lost everything. Everything he owned, though it was very little, had been swallowed by the dark waves of the North Atlantic. His clothes, his saved money, his sketchbook, his charcoal – and most importantly, her.

He'd fought to keep her safe from the very moment he met her. And he'd failed. He told her to not let go of his hand, but she had to. Jack remembered kicking. Kicking and mowing his arms, not knowing what was up or down. The only thing he felt was the ship, sucking him to the bottom of the ocean – and the cold, piercing every inch of his skin, forcing its way right into his bones.

He thought he'd die, right there. But eventually the kicking stopped. He could breathe again. There was screaming. Water was splashing everywhere. He called out for her, he swam in circles, in between corpses and people trying to use him to stay afloat – until his body finally gave up. He managed to get ahold of a piece of wreckage before he passed out – and he woke up on the RMS Carpathia.

After being forced to eat and rest, he searched for her. He searched the entire ship, from top to bottom and back to the top, but she was nowhere to be found. When the night came and he'd spent the whole day walking around – he began to understand that she hadn't made it onto the Carpathia. It broke him. What made his suffering even worse was the fact that Cal Hockley did. As soon as Jack spotted him, he'd thought about throwing him off the ship. Right over the railing. He'd counted the crew on deck and he'd estimated that he'd have about thirty seconds to get the deed done before someone would come to interfere.

Still – he didn't do it. A part of him knew damn well he wouldn't succeed and Cal Hockley wasn't worth getting arrested over. So he retreated and hid away, spending the rest of the journey to New York wondering about Rose's last moments. Jack never believed in a God – but that night, he prayed that she hadn't felt any pain.

''Jack?''.

The young man was rudely awakened from his daydreaming and looked up at his friend. Pete had a serious frown between his eyebrows. ''Are you all right?''.

He wasn't, of course, but he nodded anyway. ''Perfect'', Jack smiled, squeezing his friend's shoulder. ''Couldn't be happier''.


	3. Chapter 3

April 11th, 1913

''Right, I think that's all!''.

Oliver Levain, exhausted but fulfilled, threw his rag down onto the counter and clapped in his hands. Rose looked up from the other side of the bakery and smiled. ''I believe so!'', she answered, getting up from the floor and wiping her hands clean on her apron. ''It looks great''. With a broom in her left hand and a dusty rag in the other, Rose walked back towards Oliver and Alma. ''Is there anything else I can do?''.

''No, darling! Everything is perfect!'', Oliver smiled, enthusiastically waving his hands through the air. ''My sister will love it!''.

Oliver's sister Eva was visiting all the way from France. Mr. Levain hadn't seen her in nearly ten years and it was a big deal to him, so he'd asked Rose to help him clean the bakery. He was going to show his younger sister what he had created – all the way in America. His bakery was his pride and joy - and evidence of his personal American dream coming true.

''You've done more than enough'', Alma added, carefully wiping a hair from Rose's cheek. ''Go home. We'll see you again Monday morning''.

Rose happily complied. She felt sweaty, dirty, and her back hurt from cleaning the floor, but she also knew she'd made Oliver incredibly happy, so she truly didn't mind. As she untightened her apron and put it on the counter, Rose decided she'd let Jenny run her a bath. Oh – and she'd finally be able to read one of her new books! Yes, that was what she was going to do. Take a bath, read – and nothing more.

She said her goodbyes, wished the old Levain couple a great weekend and left the bakery, her cheeks still red from the hard work.

As had been the case the past few days, Titanic was everywhere around her. It had become almost impossible for Rose to ignore and so.. she stopped trying. The young boys in the streets with their newspapers held high – she no longer tried to avoid them. At some point, Rose thought, she'd have to get over it. Maybe that point was now. Rose felt lighter, like the burden on her shoulder suddenly weighed half of what it normally did. She was able to smile, sing and even laugh, despite the pictures around her reminding her of why she shouldn't.

So when she encountered an old salesman on the side of the road, newspapers and fresh fruits in his wooden cart, Rose decided she wanted an apple. The walk home would be another ten minutes, so a tasty refreshment wouldn't be at all a terrible idea.

''Hello, miss!'', the elderly man said. Though his beard was thick and uncared for, his dark eyes were kind.

''Afternoon!'', Rose smiled, reaching for her purse. ''I'll take an apple, please''.

''Of course!''. The man sounded delighted. Rose suspected his appearance scared most possible customers away. ''Two, actually!'', she quickly added. She'd give the other one to Jenny.

The man's eyes twinkled even brighter and he grabbed two shiny, dark red apples from his cart. Rose took them from him, put one in her purse, payed the man, wished him a good day and continued her journey home. When she took a bite and felt the juice run down her chin, she couldn't help but chuckle. For Rose, this was a good day. A day that reminded her it was possible to be normal. The sun shone bright, the birds sang and there was a soothing spring breeze flowing through the air.

Rose couldn't wait to get home and tell Jenny. She thought that maybe.. just maybe - this was her turning point.

And then she saw him.

Right as she crossed the busy street.. Rose saw the back of his head. She recognized him immediately. Rose stopped dead in her tracks, got cussed at by a man who nearly ran into her – but his insults left her unbothered. She barely even heard him.

Rose's eyes were fixed on him. Her heart started racing. It can't be. It's not possible. That's all that was running through her mind. She repeated it, over and over again like a mantra, but when he turned to the person next to him, his face became fully visible to Rose – and the apple fell from her hand. It rolled over the stone pavement and was almost immediately crushed by a red Maxwell.

''Oh no''. It escaped Rose's throat like a sigh. Much like a whisper to the wind, nobody heard it but her.

She felt as if she could faint.

There he was. Like a ghost from the past that haunted her. Caledon Hockley.

For a moment, though it seemed like forever, Rose stood completely still. Not even her eyelashes batted. She couldn't tear her eyes off him. She feared every move she made would make him aware of her presence. But then, a worried stranger put his hand on Rose's shoulder. He asked her something. Rose had no idea what he wanted, but she suddenly became very aware of how people were turning to look at her. She was drawing attention to herself.

And then - she ran.

Her purse fell onto the pavement as she picked up her skirt. Rose couldn't care. She ran into traffic, turned the first corner she saw, nearly hit a woman and child – and still didn't care. Flashes were going through her mind. Thoughts she hoped she would never have to think again. What if he'd seen her?! Oh god, what if he'd recognized her?!

''No. No. No'', Rose cried out, picking up her pace.

She had worked so hard. She'd hidden in a dark, tiny cabin on the Carpathia to avoid being seen by them. She'd changed her last name. She hadn't reached out to anybody from her past – but he'd still found her. He'd know she was alive. He'd come looking for her. He'd let her mother know – and they'd work together to trap her in their suffocating, perfectly shitty life. Everything she'd fought for would be gone. Her freedom lost.

Tears started running down Rose's face and she could barely breathe. Her heart felt like it was going a hundred miles an hour, her head felt weird and Rose started seeing patches of black where she should be seeing the road ahead.

He saw me…

It was echoing through her mind as she ran onto her property.

''JENNY!'', Rose screamed. She ran up the stone steps and banged on the door. ''JENNY!'', she cried out again. It felt like forever before the young maid opened the door, though it only could've been a couple of seconds. Rose looked over her shoulders and for a short second, she thought she saw a black coat disappearing behind a bush. The wooden door creaked open and Rose fell onto the floor, crawling into the hallway.. where she finally collapsed.

Jenny's eyes shot open. As she knelt down next to Rose and put her hand onto her shoulder, she felt the young woman's body tremble. ''Miss? What's the matter?'', Jenny asked, a slight panic coming through in her voice.

''He's here!'', Rose cried out, slamming her hand onto the wooden floor. Tears stained her face and a heartbreaking scream escaped her throat. ''He's here, he's here, he's right here!''.

Jenny, having no idea who she was talking about, slowly took Rose's face, wiped the wet hair from it and stared straight into her eyes. ''Deep breaths, Miss. Breathe. Look at me. It's all right. Breathe''.

Rose trembled still, but the sight of her maid's face calmed her down slightly. She forced herself to breathe. In through her nose, out through her mouth, just like Jenny had shown her so many times after she'd awakened from a nightmare.

It took a few minutes but finally, Rose managed to keep herself calm. ''Cal's here'', she whispered, her bottom lip trembling. Jenny's eyes widened and she immediately felt afraid, though she refused to show Rose that. ''Did you see him?'', she asked. Rose nodded quickly and her wild eyes flashed from the front door back to her maid. ''He was in the streets – on my way back from the bakery''. She felt a lump forming in her throat and she felt her eyes burning, but she held it together.

''Are you sure it was him?'', Jenny asked.

Rose nodded again, jumped up from the floor and backed herself into a wall, staring straight ahead – into nothingness.

Her mind was racing. Now that everything was on the line, her only chance at a normal life – she had to protect it. She had to make sure he could never hurt her again. Rose was sure that if he had the chance , he'd destroy everything. Cal wasn't the type of man to forgive.

''We have to leave''.

Jenny rose from the floor and frowned. ''Leave, miss?''.

''Yes'', Rose nodded, waving her finger like she'd just made an important discovery. ''We have to go''.

She turned, sprinted up the stairs, into her room, and grabbed a brown leather suitcase from her closet. It flew open when she threw it onto her bed and in a rage, Rose started pulling her clothes from their wooden planks.

''Miss!'', Jenny called, running into her room. ''Miss, please! He may not have seen you!''.

''He may not'', Rose agreed, pushing her dresses into the case. ''But he's here. I assume he lives here''. She made her way to her desk and grabbed everything in sight. Her perfumes, her books, her jewelry. When she caught her own reflection in the mirror, bewildered and fearful, she suddenly stopped.

Her red hair, which had been in a perfect braid just minutes ago, had fallen across her face. It was wet from the tears. As were her cheeks. Her eyes were swollen and wide, her lips pushed together. She looked like she'd just escaped an attack. She looked… the way she'd looked when she woke up on the RMS Carpathia.

''Miss?'', Jenny whispered.

Rose looked down at her hands. They trembled.

''Miss?''.

She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes for a second. Wiped the hair from her face. Composed herself. And then she turned to face Jenny.

''Yes'', Rose said, calmly now. ''We're leaving''.

Jenny looked worried. Scared, even.

''I made him a promise''.

For any other person, this would have been anyone, but Jenny knew she was referring to Jack Dawson. She recognized the look in her eyes when she spoke of him.

''I was going to act. I was going to ride horses and fly! Jenny.. there is so much I promised him I would do''. Rose walked towards her maid and took her hands in hers. ''I am not going to run forever. I am going to do the things I was never allowed to. I will build a life. One that they can't easily take away from me. I promised him I would''.

Jenny hesitated, of course. She'd lived in this part of the city for as long as she could remember. She knew the people, she knew the streets – and she had it good. Still, the determination in Rose's eyes made her realize she was going to leave with or without her. And Jenny had also made a promise.

''All right'', she answered, nodding her head. ''We're leaving''.

While Rose and Jenny made their escape from Cal Hockley's presence, Jack Dawson picked up a brush.

In front of him sat a young woman with big, blonde curls. Next to him sat his friend, Pete, working on a portrait of his own. By Jack's feet stood a big can – filled with the finest paint he'd been able to afford.

''Turn your head slightly to your right''.

The young woman did as she was told. Jack's eyes watched her closely. He let them wander from her forehead to her dark eyes. His brush followed.

''Do you paint often?'', the woman asked. She didn't move a muscle. Jack figured she'd sat for a portrait before.

''Not as often as I'd like'', he answered, moving on to her nose. ''Canvas and paint are a lot more expensive than a piece of charcoal, I'll tell ya that''.

''Maybe if you were a better artist, you'd be able to afford it'', Pete grinned. The young woman chuckled.

''Never mind him'', Jack whispered to her. ''I'll kick his ass later''.

Moments went by, and the young woman sat as still as she could while Jack carefully painted her likeness. Secretly, Pete was impressed by the detail his friend managed to put into the painting. He only had one shade of paint, but the textures he used allowed him to show off the tiniest of details.

''There's a man watching us'', the girl suddenly said.

Pete looked up. Jack didn't. With the back end of his brush, he made her blonde curls come to life. He was much too into it to care. ''He's been there for a while'', she added.

Jack smiled. ''Well.. he's gonna have to get in line''.

Nearly half an hour later, the man was still there. He stood by a tree.. just a few steps out of Jack's sight. He watched the young painter and every move his brush made. Patient and attentive like a predator would wait for its prey.

''Here you go''. Jack handed the young woman her painting. ''Careful. It's still a little wet''.

''My God'', the woman whispered. ''It's beautiful. Truly.. amazing''.

Jack smiled and ran his hand through his hair. ''I'm glad you like it''.

''I do. I really, really do. Thank you so much''.

The woman paid her dues, wished both young artists a good day, took her painting and left. Before Jack had the chance to sit back down, the mysterious man appeared from behind his tree.

''Afternoon'', he said, sitting down on the stool Jack had used for the girl.

''Afternoon to you too!'', the latter answered, wiping his dirty hands clean on a previously white rag. ''How can I help ya?''.

Jack guessed the man was somewhere around his forties. He had thick, brown hair, though some strands began to go grey. His eyes were grey too, but very kind. He had a clean shaven face and a wrinkle between his brows. Jack figured the man frowned too much. He must be a serious type, then.

''I'd like a painting'', the man answered.

Jack nodded. Maybe he could buy himself a drink tonight, after all.

''Sure! Let's do it''.

''Not of me'', the man said – and Jack frowned. ''I want you to paint another girl''.

''Ah.. all right.. which one?''.

''Either one''.

Jack and Pete exchanged glances – both equally confused.

''Let me get this right'', Jack said as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and hung it between his lips. The man pulled a small box of matches from his pocket and handed it to him. ''Thank you''. Jack lit the cigarette and took a slow drag, all the while carefully watching the stranger in front of him. ''You want me to paint a girl for you. One you don't know?''.

The man smiled. It was a kind smile. ''Correct'', he answered. ''And when you've finished, I want you to bring it to me''.

''I hope we're talking about the painting here, buddy'', Jack laughed.

The man nodded and smiled again.

''My name is Henry William Alice. I'm an artist and an art critique''.

Jack frowned.

''I buy paintings. For personal use, for clients, for art expositions. I want your painting in Brooklyn's Annual Art Exposition.''

Jack now began to understand that this man was an important somebody. Somebody rich, judging by the looks of him. Though he didn't quite understand what this stranger was up to – he was certainly intrigued.

''What exactly does that mean, Henry?''.

''It means that you paint a portrait. The best you can paint. One like the girl you just painted. When you're done, you bring it to me. I'll pay you a good price for it and then I'll put it up on display for the whole of Brooklyn and New York to see. When somebody at the exposition decides they want to buy your painting, I make money – and you make a career''.

A puff of smoke escaped from Jack Dawson's lips. The frown between his brows was still there. His friend, Pete, sat there with his mouth wide open.

''In short – I want you to work with me''.

''Jack Dawson'', Jack said, shaking Henry Alice's hand.

''You can make a lot of money, Jack Dawson. You certainly have the talent''. Henry got up from the stool, pulled a small card from his pocket and handed it to the young painter in front of him. ''Think about it. This is where you can find me. If you're interested, bring by a painting somewhere tomorrow''.

Jack still had many questions, but before he had the chance to get any of them answered, Henry Alice disappeared into the many visitors of Prospect Park. The card in his hand had an address written on it. 5349 Metropolitan Avenue, Greenpoint.

''Jack!''.

Pete jumped up from his stool, grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shook him twice. ''I think you've just been discovered, mate!''. Jack laughed at the look on Pete's face and shrugged. ''I don't know..''.

''Well I do!'', Pete yelled, loudly enough for an elderly woman to give them a nasty look. ''This is it, man! Your big break! You are going to make so much money, my friend, you can buy all the god damn liquor this damned city has to offer''.

Jack couldn't help but laugh and slowly shook his head. His friend continued on yelling about the finest rums and whiskeys – but Jack's mind was with Henry William Alice, the kind stranger that just might have changed the course of his young life forever.

Jack's eyes wandered over the address on the card and subconsciously, he was already trying to figure out how to get there.


	4. Chapter 4

June 22nd, 1922

Nine years went by. Neither Rose Dawson or Jack knew of each other's survival. Despite the pain, the sorrow and the heartache: life went on. The earth does not stop turning for anybody, even for lovers. On the anniversary of Titanic's demise, Jack began to realize this. He wanted Rose back more than anything – though he realized death couldn't ever me reversed. Just hours before this realization started setting in, he'd dropped off his sketches at Henry William Alice's place. His future seemed to be heading to a brighter, more comfortable place – but when Jack sat by the shore that night, staring across the dark blue of the North Atlantic, the waves of which had claimed the love of his life exactly one year earlier, he couldn't help but feel terribly alone.

So he took out his sketchbook – and he drew Rose again, one last time. He wanted to make sure he still remembered her. Her soft, red curls. Her eyes, with their shades of silver and blue. Her hands. He drew her as best he could. For the rest of that night, Jack spent his time looking at the drawings he'd made of her in the past year. When the morning came, Jack realized he had to let go. He would want Rose to move on. He would want her to find happiness, even if it weren't with him. She'd never get that chance. Her body lay in a place where it would always be dark and cold. She'd never see the sun rise again, or feel the warmth of sunrays on her cheeks. She'd never be able to do the things they talked about, so Jack decided he'd do it for her.

He carefully tore out the sketches, held his hand out and watched the paper sheets dance in the wind. He caught her eyes looking at him.. right before he let the sketches slip from his hands. They drifted peacefully for a while – unaware of the fate that Jack had just bestowed upon them. The wind softly blew them further and further, out onto the ocean until finally – they grazed the waves and drowned.

And Jack tried to move on.

His work built him an empire.

Through Henry Alice's efforts and business savvy ways, Jack began to sell sketches and paintings. He grew more and more popular and after two years, New York's finest elite were waiting in line for one of his pieces. Jack made money like he'd never made before. With his very first paycheck, he bought him and Pete a bottle of the finest rum in New York – which they finished in the park, along with a set of two Cuban cigars. When Jack's paycheck started to grow, he decided to completely let go off his past. He felt that it was time. Jack Dawson, though it was a name that he had held dear, was also a name entangled with a dark, painful past. He felt it was wearing him down. It prevented him from moving on and as a result, Jack Dawson became Jay Gatsby.

Now.. Jay Gatsby fell in New York's good graces. Women adored him and men wanted to be him. They bought his paintings, they bought his sketches, they bought anything as long as it had his name on it. The least of his works was still accepted as an absolute wonder. Jay Gatsby could do no wrong.

And so.. the empire grew. It expanded. Jay Gatsby became a true artist, a businessman - and an official member of New York's elite. The man who was always considered a third class citizen, a sore in the eyes of the rich, developed a taste for the finer things in life. In 1920, Jay bought a 12 bedroom mansion in West Egg of Long Island – home to the wealthy upper class. That same year, he met a beautiful, rich young woman at an exposition – someone to stand by his side no matter what. The final puzzle piece to Jay's otherwise perfect life. Daisy Fay.

He married her in the spring of the following year – and Jack Dawson is never spoken of again.

And as Jay Gatsby, reborn, made his presence known and permanent in New York – Rose Dawson moved to California and became a true icon. A theatre actress. Accompanied by her maid and friend Jenny, Rose made her all of her dreams come true. She rode a horse along the Santa Monica shore, she flew a plane, she played on California's most prominent stages and finally: she dared to fall back in love. A certain Jonathan Calvert, renowned businessman, managed to piece her heart back together, though Rose accepted it would never truly beat the same. The young couple decided to move back to Jonathan's home in New York and shortly after, Rose Dawson falls pregnant with the couple's first child. Only weeks after this discovery, they engage to be married.

It is remarkable how close you can be to something you so desperately want without ever realizing it.

For nearly ten years, these seemingly star crossed lovers were left to believe they'd lost the love of their life forever. But then the afternoon of June 22nd, 1922 set in motion a series of happenings that made their paths intertwine.

Jay stood in front of the bedroom mirror, fixing the sleeves of his black Italian suit when the young and ever-joyous Daisy came walking in. She lovingly put her hands on his shoulders, stood up on her toes, kissed him on the cheek and walked over to her jewelry box, taking out a pair of emerald earrings Jay had gifted her for their one year anniversary.

''Darling?''.

Jay, seemingly distracted by a pair of gilded buttons, responded with an ''hmm?''. Whenever she called him darling, there was something that she wanted from him.

''Remember that play I told you about last week?'', the young woman smiled. She walked towards the mirror, stood next to her husband and felt on her earlobe, pressing it softly between her thumb and fingers.

Jay smirked.

''I do'', he answered, turning to her – and his wife's eyes lit up.

''Well!'', she exclaimed, suddenly twice as excited. ''I've been wanting to go with you for ages and it's playing tonight. I know you're very busy and I know that you and Henry have a lot of art-related business to discuss, but I would love it if you could make some time for me''.

Art-related business. Jay scoffed. Softly, so she wouldn't hear.

He scratched his head, slowly squeezed his eyes together and watched his wife put in her earrings. Indeed, he did have a lot of business to discuss with Henry. Though their partnership had lasted over the past nine years, their relationship had definitely changed. They had become friends. More importantly, they'd become equals.

''Fine'', Jay finally said, nodding his head. ''I'll take you to that damn play''.

A scream that sounded more like an excited yelp escaped from Daisy Fay's throat and she happily clapped her hands together, grabbing her husbands face and planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth. ''You'll love it!'', she smiled, softly squeezing his arm. ''There's this new actress.. who's seemingly very very good. She's from California, I believe''.

Jay nodded and smiled, though he'd already phased her out. His mind was elsewhere. He heard her talking in the background but only vaguely, like his head was underwater. He felt her kiss him again and then she hopped out of the room. When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he noticed a look of disdain. It was as if another version of him stared straight at him, silently judging, though Jay couldn't pinpoint what for.

He brushed it off, softly tugged on his sleeve, ran a hand through his dark blonde hair and continued the day in his office while his beloved wife sat by the swimming pool with her best friend, Eliza. That was the normality of his day. They only saw each other again at dinner, to which Daisy had invited her friends. It had become obvious that their dinner table, which had room for nearly twenty people – had become a space of discomfort and confrontation. Both Daisy and Jay were confronted that despite having it all, they didn't truly have much. As a result, Daisy made it a custom to invite friends over for dinner.

Daisy's best friend Eliza became her best friend when Jay started bringing Pete and his girlfriend over. Pete Barreyfield had remained Jack's friend throughout all his success and now – he'd become Jay's friend too. He was the only person that knew of Jay's past and the only person Jay felt he could confide in. Pete's dark curls were starting to go grey and his eyes were starting to show signs of aging, but they were as full of mischief as the day the two men had met nearly ten years ago. Pete was the only thing left remaining of Jack Dawson and to Jay – this was somewhat comforting.

''Jay!'', Eliza cried out, revealing her perfectly white set of teeth. ''Where have you been?''.

Jay sat down at the dinner table, simply smiled and asked the maid to pour the company their wine.

''Doing business, o'course'', Pete grinned.

Eliza rolled her eyes. ''You two and your business. You're always hiding away in that dusty old office, Jay! How come I never see you around the pool?''. She twirled one of her curls around her finger and turned her head, almost as if she was trying to seduce her way into his truth.

''Oh!'', Daisy laughed, putting her glass of wine to her lips. ''Didn't you know? Jay is terribly afraid of water''.

The look on Eliza's face was one of absolute disbelief and after staring at Jay with her mouth wide open, she burst out laughing. ''Of water, Jay? Is that true?''.

Pete noticed the discomfort on his friends face and attempted to turn the conversation by complementing the green beans on his plate, but Eliza was unstoppable. She had a liking for the dramatic aspects of life and she was a gossip at heart. Nevertheless, she was kind and good to Pete, and he was madly in love.

''Unbelievable, right?'', Daisy added. ''Jay Gatsby, afraid of water''.

Though it was a seemingly amusing thought to his wife and Eliza, Jay himself couldn't see the humor. The two women were laughing their heads off at the thought of him trembling around any body of water and it bothered him, more than he let on. ''I suppose everybody has a thing, right?''. He tried to make a joke of it. ''Water just so happens to be mine''.

''How come?'', Eliza asked. Pete saw the potato crumbling between her teeth when she asked it. ''Surely, there must be a reason, right?''.

Jay's jaws clenched together. Pete grabbed his cup of wine, took a gulp and smiled wide. ''Say, Daisy, where's this wine from? It's absolutely ma-''. ''You've actually never told me that'', Daisy whispered, squeezing her eyes together as she reached out for Jay's hand. He didn't take it.

''Why are you so terribly afraid of water?''.

To both women, this was a mystery that needed solving, despite the obvious discomfort of the man in question and the uncomfortable attempts of his friend to make light of the situation. Jay had never spoken to Daisy about his past. To her, he was an orphan, raised by a carpenter and his wife in Wisconsin who so happened to get lucky by selling a piece of art to the right man. She'd never asked any questions. He'd never brought it up.

He realized, though, that his wife nor her friend were going to let this go. Both of them wanted to get to the bottom of his irrational fear. Dinner started to feel oddly like a therapy session. Jay wondered at what point they'd bring the shrink out to join them.

''I eh-'', he slowly scratched at the corner of his mouth, let out a soft sigh and smiled. ''I almost drowned when I was a little kid. Stumbled right into the pond across our home. I spent a few minutes fighting to stay afloat but eh.. it was cold. I got lucky. That's it''.

Daisy looked at him with eyes as wide as saucers. Unconsciously, she'd put her hand onto her heart – something she always did when she was told something she perceived to be shocking. Pete didn't look at Jay. He had his eyes focused on his plate, slowly twirling his wineglass between his fingertips.

''Oh dear'', Daisy whispered.

''You must've been terrified!''. Eliza looked absolutely horrified.. and weirdly, slightly amused. ''So how did you get out?''.

''Ladies.. ladies'', Pete interrupted his girlfriend and looked stern. ''Let's not talk about something so dark. This is supposed to be a lovely dinner between four friends. Let's talk about this another time.. a time more appropriate. In fact, Jay – let's go have a smoke''.

They left the two women alone as they walked into the garden, all the way to the end of it– where they overlooked Great South Bay. Pete pulled a cigarette from his pocket and handed it to his friend. They smoked quietly, watching the waves gently bounce up and down.

''Your girlfriend is a real pain in the ass'', Jay whispered, a smile spread across his lips.

Pete chuckled. ''Yours too''.

He turned to his friend and slowly blew the smoke from his lungs, letting it dance across the evening sky.

''Why don't you tell her to shut her mouth?''.

''She's my wife''.

''And?''.

''I want to keep it that way''.

''Since when did you stop speaking your mind? Jack, I-''.

''Jay''.

Pete sighed and pressed his cigarette out on the stone railing beneath his hands.

''Jay. This is not the way I know you. This is not who I became friends with. I see you walk from the solace of your office and your eyes just.. they stop shining''.

Jay laughed. ''They stop 'shining'? What are you, a poet?''.

His friend didn't laugh. He looked at him, confused and wondering when his friend had changed to someone so.. pretentious. He hadn't noticed the changing while it happened but now he started to realize that his friend, Jack Dawson, was forever gone.

''I'm getting real tired of this Jay bullshit, you know that?! You can't convince me that you're happy, mate! No matter how hard you try to get rid of Jack, it seems to me that you still have some unfinished business with the guy''.

''Well, what am I supposed to do, huh?! Throw this all away? Tell Daisy I've been lying to her for as long as she's known me? You know what that could cost me?'', Jay answered with equal frustration.

''A lot'', Pete admitted. ''But you'd have yourself back''.

Pete had watched his once outspoken, fearless friend become a careful, pretentious man. Everything was all about money, about keeping Daisy happy, about having a beautiful home, about fitting in. Jack Dawson wasn't like that. Jack Dawson cared no more about money than he cared about mud. He cared about living to the fullest. He cared about art. He cared about friendship.

''I think it's best if I go home'', he finally said. ''I'll see you later, Jay''.

As Pete walked away and disappeared back into the huge, empty house, Jay smoked the last of his cigarette and looked at the sun going down. Lots of things were running through his mind, but he hadn't the courage to say any of it out loud and at that point, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, his friend was right. The house, the money, the cars, the girl – Jay had valued it more than himself. He'd found a purpose and had become lost in it, desperately trying to stay busy, to keep moving. But at what cost?

He still wondered this when his 1922 Rolls-Royce drove into the city - his talkative, cheery wife right by his side.


	5. Chapter 5

Daisy Fay loved the theatre.

More than anything, she loved the attention people gave her in the theatre. She loved the fancy clothing. She loved being around people of her own status. She loved being one of the first to view famous plays. She loved being able to dress up and show off. The theatre gave her that opportunity. Jay, of course, knew this was the reason she so desperately wanted to go in the first place. Daisy always wanted to go somewhere. She wanted to be seen. Otherwise, she felt as if she was wasting her good years.

Naturally, when the Gatsby's entered the theatre, New York's elite turned and looked. Daisy shook hands, told a few people she barely knew how lovely it was to see them again, complimented a woman on her engagement and spent nearly fifteen minutes discussing the dress she was wearing. Jay simply nodded a few times, answered a few smiles, and then sat down in his seat.

''What has gotten into you?'', Daisy whispered, almost as soon as she sat down next to him.

Jay turned his head towards her and frowned, ever so slightly.

''You haven't spoken a word all evening. These people want to talk to us, Jay. They're our friends''.

''No they're not''.

''Well – they could be! Are you all right?''.

She sounded genuinely worried. Lovingly, the young woman took her husband's hand and he kissed it, putting the smile back on her face. ''I'm great. Just great'', he whispered. She believed him. Within seconds, she was lost again in conversation.

Jay took his time to admire the theatre. He didn't leave the house very often – let alone to go see a play, but he understood why people loved it so much. It was truly a breathtaking building. The interior designed perfectly to match the spirit of the roaring twenties. The stage had been decorated with black marble pillars, the ceiling covered in art deco's golden geometrical patterns. The lights that hung on the walls were dark blue, decorated with a flower pattern of bronze. They shone a soft, golden light across the seating area which, in its turn, was filled with seats from the finest red velvet – Jay suspected there was room for at least two hundred people. In the back of the room was a bar, hosted by two men in bowties and black jackets. As they poured a few gentlemen their drinks, Jay noticed the bartenders looked almost identical. Right down to their perfectly shaven mustaches.

More and more people came pouring in. Many strangers. Some of Jay's customers. All of them sickeningly rich. The women were covered in jewels - their hair was perfectly done, their eyebrows plucked, their lips painted red, their hands hidden away in satin gloves, their foreheads hidden behind bejeweled headbands and feathers. Jay had always found it funny looking, but the style had become custom for the rich women of New York.

''So'', Jay whispered, slowly turning to his wife. ''What's this play about? Why is it so famous?''.

Daisy laughed and rolled her eyes, turning towards him.

''The story goes about a young woman who falls in love with a man she can never have. Truly tragic. She goes mad for him and decides she must have him at all costs – so she decides to become his very dream. She becomes what he wants her to be, what any man would want their wife to be, only to realize that- Oh.. well, I suppose I'd spoil it for you if I told you''. She gave him a quick kiss on the lips. ''You'll find out'', she whispered.

Jay smiled and nodded and as if it were planned, the room went silent. The lights were dimmed. The play had begun.

And the audience loved it. They chuckled when the doctor made a terrible joke, they gasped when his wife suspected him of adultery and one man nearly spat out his drink when he watched her hit him. Because of the assault, the good doctor had finally reached what seemed to be his breaking point and he left, leaving his wife to cry in their house all by her lonely self. When it became evident that the doctor went on to see his mistress, many sat silently judging while equally as many fantasized. The scenery changed and suddenly, there was a wooden door. The doctor stumbled towards it, visibly upset by what happened between him and his wife. Apparently, thought Jay, not nearly as upset as he should be.

''Eleanora?!'', he cried out, desperately banging on her front door.

There was no answer. Jay chuckled. Maybe Eleanora had given him the boot. Good for her.

''Eleanora, would you please open the door?''.

The doctor seemed desperate for this woman, and Jay wondered how a man could invest so much emotion into somebody he didn't truly love while simultaneously ignoring the one he did. He wondered even more how Eleanora allowed herself to fall victim to this man's adulterous ways. But then came the moment when Eleanora cracked and answered the doctors pleas. The front door opened, slowly – but once it did – the doctor fell straight into his mistress's arms. Light softly shone onto her face, and Jay heart's suddenly stopped beating. He gasped for air and three faces turned towards him, including that of his wife. When she saw the look on his face, much like he'd just seen a ghost, she frowned. Her husband had turned an unhealthy colour. Pale white. His jaw had dropped and his eyes were focused on the stage. Not once did he blink.

''Jay?'', Daisy whispered, softly tugging on his arm. ''Sweetheart, are you all right?''.

Once again, Daisy's voice was being drowned out. In fact everything was. Everything went mute to Jay's ears. Everything but her. Eleanora, the doctor's breathtakingly beautiful mistress - was the ghost of Rose Dewitt Bukater.

But it couldn't be.

For a couple of seconds, Jay thought he'd gone mad. He thought that maybe, he was asleep. Maybe he'd passed out in his office. Rose is dead, he reminded himself. She's dead. This can't be. But still.. the way her red curls danced across her face, the sound of her voice, the way she moved – it was all truly her. God, it even seemed like he could smell her. A subtle scent of florals, spreading across the room with every step she took.

Suddenly, Jay felt faint. His head started turning and in an effort to make it stop, he hid his face in his hands, his head leaning back onto the headrest. ''Jay?!'', Daisy hissed, softly. She glanced across the room to see if anybody was watching them, but the audience was much too involved with the scene on stage to care about the one right next to them.

''Jay, what are you doing?!''.

He couldn't stop it. He couldn't call the endless turning to a halt. His head was spinning, faster and faster, his lungs seemed to contract to the size of two grapes and he suddenly became extremely aware of his pulse. Without saying another word, Jay jumped up from his seat and fled the room. He ran through the hall, right past the theatre stewards offering to bring him his coat. He flung the doors open and fell straight into the crisp evening breeze, collapsing against a wall in the alleyway of the theatre and slowly sliding down onto the ground. His heart. There was something wrong with his heart. He managed to undo the first two buttons of his shirt as he gasped for air, though his hands trembled uncontrollably. He folded them onto the back of his head and he squeezed his eyes together as tight as he could, desperately trying to force breath into his lungs. Desperately trying to make sense of what he just saw.

''This can't be real'', he whispered to himself, rubbing the palms of his hands across his eyes. ''I'm going crazy. This isn't real. Wake up, man! Wake up!''. His voice echoed loudly through the air as he yelled it.

He knew he was in trouble. His heart was racing in his chest, he was short on breath and he began to saw patches of black. Rose. It was her. Undoubtedly, unmistakenly her. But it couldn't be! HOW could it be her?! He'd searched for her. She never made it to New York. She never made it onto the goddamn Carpathia!

''FUCK!'', he roared, slamming his hands against his forehead. ''Wake UP, man! Wake up!''.

He repeated it time and time again until finally – his lungs accepted the air he so desperately tried to force in. It took a few more seconds for him to be able to open his eyes and though it helped – his hands still trembled. Almost immediately, he noticed a small, black and white poster hanging on the stone wall of the theatre.

It was her.

She looked straight at him – her curls kept together by a ribbon, her lips painted. She sat on a chair, her legs pulled up next to her, her chin resting in the palm of her hand. In her other hand, she held a single rose. She smiled at him.

Then, Jay noticed the letters beneath her picture.

''Rose Dawson'', he whispered.

Dawson.

Slowly, Jay forced himself to get up on his feet. He stumbled towards the pamphlet and reached out for it, afraid that if he were to touch it – it would disappear right beneath his fingers. But it was her. Rose. Her eyes, looking straight into his. Open. Alive. Kind. And her lips.. oh, her lips. A feeling came across Jay. It was something that he hadn't felt for a very, very long time. It was the same feeling he'd felt when he realized she hadn't made it onto the RMS Carpathia. His chest felt as if it were filled with rocks, his heart felt heavy and his throat felt sore. Suddenly, he felt something wet roll across his jaw – and then he broke down.

Right there in that cold, dark alleyway, the rich, well-respected Jay Gatsby shattered into a thousand little pieces. He ripped the pamphlet from the wall and let out a cry of desperation, sliding back along the wall, falling onto the stone pavement. Tears rolled from his eyes and with every excruciating breath he took, a cry followed – the likes of which could have broken even the toughest man's heart.


	6. Chapter 6

Jay stayed there for nearly half an hour before Daisy found him. He'd sat there, hidden away in a dark, secluded alley until he had no tears left to cry. His eyes had gone bloodshot. They'd turned swollen and tears had left a trail of salt on Jay Gatsby's cheeks, but he was quick to wipe them away when he heard his wife approach. He still sat on the pavement, his arms resting on his knees, his head resting against the stone wall, a lit cigarette clenched between his lips. His eyes were focused on the starry night above him.

''Jay!'', Daisy cried out.

He didn't say anything.

''Jay, my god! I've been looking for you! What happened?''.

For nine years, I thought the woman I loved had died in the North Atlantic after I fought to keep her safe. I've been a shell of a man for nine fucking years. I've tried to forget her. I've tried to move on. I've tried to stop loving her.. but I just saw her acting on stage right in front of me and in seconds – she's brought me back to square one. But I can't ever tell you that.

''I felt sick''.

Daisy kneeled down in front of him, put her hands on his cheeks and forehead and turned her head sideways in pity. ''You poor soul'', she whispered. Jay blew the smoke from his lungs right into her face, though she didn't seem to notice the passive aggressiveness behind it. ''Let's go home. We can see the play another time''.

It took a him while to regain the strength in his legs but with Daisy's help, he managed to get back onto his feet.

As they walked towards the car, he wanted nothing more than to turn around. He wanted nothing more than to run up onto that stage and pull her against him. He wanted to know how she'd managed to survive. He wanted to know if she'd been happy. He wanted to know if she'd longed for him as much as he had for her.

But he couldn't. His legs wouldn't let him. His mind wouldn't let him. The ring on his finger wouldn't let him.

Not only had his legs given up on him– he couldn't help but doubt she'd want anything to do with him. Surely, she'd moved on. She hadn't tried to find him or contact him and she'd had nine whole years to do it. Maybe she'd fallen back into the lifestyle she led before she met him. Maybe her mother had gotten ahold of her. Maybe she'd simply gotten to her senses.

His wedding ring suddenly weighed a lot more, it seemed. As Daisy planted herself next to him in the car and carefully kissed on his temple, he felt it burning on his finger. His heart screamed at him. It ordered him to go back inside, to go see her. Rose Dawson.. She'd taken his name. Why had she done that?

His mind told his heart to shut the hell up.

Jay Gatsby, in that moment, ignored the residue of Jack Dawson within him and drove off. He watched the theatre get smaller and smaller in his review mirror and his heart started screaming even louder, but Jay had overpowered Jack and stomped on the gas until it finally went quiet – and shattered completely.

That night, when they came home, Jay threw his overcoat onto the couch, told Daisy he had some work left to do and disappeared into his office. Daisy, though she felt somewhat blindsided by her husband's suddenly strange behavior, decided to just go with it and went to bed.

The leather of his chair whined as Jay sat down on it. It was quite representative.

In his mind, there were a million questions.

Was it really her? Was it not just a phantom? A desperate trick of the mind? Had he not accidentally fallen asleep in his office, making this all a terrible dream? If it wasn't, had she seen him? How had he not seen _her?_ How had he not heard her? How on earth had he not been able to find her on that godforsaken ship? Why didn't she contact him? Why was she using his name?

Most importantly: what was he going to do.

Jay poured himself a drink on the rocks and threw it down in one big gulp. Another one followed. After, he lit a cigarette, sat down at his desk and started turning at the wheel on his telephone. He knew who he needed, right now. He needed someone sane to talk to.


	7. Chapter 7

Pete arrived at two in the morning.

''What the bloody hell is going on?''. Sleep still lingered in his eyes and the way his hair sat on his head gave away that he'd just rolled out of bed. Jay shut the door behind him, gestured for him to be quiet and walked him to the office. After he'd made sure Daisy wasn't secretly hiding around the corner, Jay turned to his friend and spilled.

''It was her'', he said, his hand resting on his head.

''Who? Who are you talking about?!''.

''Rose! It was her!''.

For a few seconds, Pete looked at his friend as if he'd gone mad. Maybe this lifestyle, this toxic, pretentious dollhouse – maybe it had finally gotten to him. Something must be terribly wrong to have him seeing ghosts.

''Jack… pal, maybe you need to get some sleep''.

Jay Gatsby shook his head and pressed his index finger to his lip. ''I know it was her. It wasn't a dream!''. He looked his friend in the eyes, excitedly. ''I know it was'', he repeated. Pete noticed a careful smile on Jay's face. He really did seem certain. Confident. Calm. His friend didn't look bewildered or out of his mind at all and for a second, Pete questioned if maybe he was right – but then again, he couldn't be. It couldn't possibly have been who he thought it was – and Pete wanted his friend to know that. He couldn't allow Jay to live like this any longer, hoping for a dead person to come back to life so they could finally live the way they were supposed to. It wasn't healthy.

''Pal, she'd dead… Gone! Dissapearo. She's a goner! You know that!'' and then, more quietly: ''don't do this to yourself, man''.

''Will you just PLEASE- listen to me, Pete. Hear me out. It was her. The way she moved, the color of her hair, her voice. There's nobody like her in this world. Yes, sure – it's been a few years… but I would've been able to recognize her from miles away. Trust me. It was Rose''.

For Pete, the realization set in that his friend wasn't going to let this go. He was sure of his case and nothing or no one in this godforsaken world could make him believe otherwise. Defeated, he sat down into the moaning leather chair. Jay sat down at the edge of his desk.

''Mate'', Pete whispered, trying once more to get through to him. ''There wasn't any recollection of her. You searched for her. No Rose Dewitt Bukater made it onto the Carpathia – and they registered every single one of them''.

Jay smiled.

''Well… it couldn't have been Rose Dewitt Bukater. She never made it onto the ship. Rose Dawson did''.

''What?''.

''She used my name''.

''Well for f- why?!''.

''She's a smart girl. She really is. Cal survived. I saw him on the deck, that morning. If she'd seen him too, she would've tried anything to avoid being seen by him''.

Something clicked in Pete's head.

''She was hiding from Cal'', he whispered in absolute disbelief. As he said it, the shock of a dead person coming back to life set in. His jaw dropped.

Jay's smile widened. For a second, Pete recognized a spark of Jack Dawson in his blue eyes. He was relieved to find out that his friend hadn't actually lost his marbles, but he was now horribly worried about what this was going to mean for Jay Gatsby. Softly, Pete pressed his hands against his forehead. He had no idea what to think. How could this have happened – and why now?! Why not nine years ago? That girl could've saved Jack from this lifestyle. More importantly, she could've spared him the torment of thinking she was dead. Pete had stood by his friend, an uncountable number of times, attempting to console him, to calm him down when the anger took control… and to lend a shoulder once the pain finally set in.

''What are you going to do?''. The whisper floated through the air and landed on the great Gatsby's shoulders, trembling in fear of what the answer might be. Jay simply looked at his friend and the corners of his mouth curled upwards, just a little bit. In that moment, he looked more like Jack Dawson than he'd done in almost a decade.

''Well'', he answered, as steady as he could be – under these circumstances. ''I have to see her''. He said it as if it made perfect sense. As if he weren't married. As if he didn't have a completely strange life he'd kept hidden from everyone. ''Just to see that she's okay. I won't do anything else. I _just_ want to know that she's all right''.

Pete never said it out loud, but in his mind, all he could think of when he looked at his friend were two outrageously truthful words. Lying bastard.

For five weeks, Jay Gatsby spent every Friday night at the theatre. Daisy believed he was closing a huge art deal that required a lot of conversation, and Jay intended to keep it that way. He felt bad, honestly, about lying to his wife – but not bad enough. He knew he couldn't tell her about this particular scenario. Not about Rose. Not yet, anyway.

The well respected man made sure he had a seat in the shadows. A place where he couldn't be seen, but where he could see everybody. Especially the actress that played Eleanora, the doctor's mistress. Every week, he watched her performance with held breath and every week, he had to drag himself away from her at the end of it all. Truth be told, he didn't want to leave. Watching her play - watching her move and laugh and hearing her voice – it brought back a lot of painful and beautiful memories. When Eleanora and the doctor kissed, he thought about how he'd helped her fly on the Titanic's bow. When they fought, he remembered how Cal had set him up – how he had attempted to make Rose believe he'd stolen her diamond. When Eleanora finally realized she would never have the doctor for herself and broke down – he remembered how her eyes had looked the day he'd pulled her into the gym to convince her that she needed to break free. He remembered the pained expression on her face as the realization hit her that if she'd stay, she'd die – but that she had no other choice. Jack had attempted to give her that other choice. He'd told her that he'd leave with her as soon as they got in New York. He'd draw to make a living. Anything was fine – as long as she'd come along. Now that Jack was Jay Gatsby, he quickly found out he was still more than willing to keep that promise. He loved her, still. Just as fiercely as he had when they were on the ship.

And because this realization hit him, Friday after Friday, he finally caved in the fifth week. No longer could he stand the memories that she brought back onto him, or the sight of her hands so close – but not on his skin. On the evening of July 28th, 1922 – Jack decided to use the prestige that Jay Gatsby had managed to collect over the years to his advantage. He'd done it a million times, of course, but this time was particularly important.

After the play had finished and the actors had made their way backstage, he waited a few more minutes. He watched the audience as they started to make their way home and once the room was half empty, he stepped from the shadows and hopped on over to the bar, where he ordered a glass of champagne.

''You don't happen to know what marvelous soul brought this play to New York, do you?''.

The bartender looked up from his pouring and smiled. The curls in his mustache moved upwards. ''That would be mister Jonathan Calvert, sir. He's a businessman from the west coast''.

Jay nodded. The bartender handed him his drink.

''It truly is a fantastic play, don't you think?''.

''Well, yes sir. I don't know much about theatre, I'm afraid – but it was fantastic indeed''.

Another nod. A sip. A nonchalant glance across the room. Jay was looking for the businessman. That would be a man in a suit. Someone who lingered as the guests made their way outside. Someone who stayed to receive compliments and answer questions in hopes of meeting someone big. Someone like Jay Gatsby. Right as another sip of champagne burned its way down Jay's throat, his eyes fell on that one particular man. He stood down by the stage, speaking to an elderly couple. He wore a luxurious, expensive looking suit. Italian, Jay suspected. He had a pocket watch that he looked at every two minutes and his polite smile seemed to be plastered to his face.

Jonathan Calvert.

Jay thanked the bartender, emptied his glass, straightened his coat and walked towards the target. Confident, but not cocky. Like he would walk into a real business meeting. He knew what he had to do. He had a plan, and he executed it perfectly. The way of the business world.

''Mister Calvert, I take it?''.

Jonathan Calvert looked up from the elderly couple in front of him, caught the eyes of Jay Gatsby and turned bright red. Everybody who was somebody in this city knew who Jay Gatsby was. A man of the arts. Somebody whose association should not be taken lightly.

''M-mr Gatsby!'', the man stammered, quickly grabbing his hand and shaking it. It was almost as if he checked that he wasn't dreaming. ''My – what a pleasure to have you here!''.

''Certainly!'', Jay answered, his perfectly polished smile out on display. ''Sir, madam – if you'll excuse us. I have some business to discuss with mister Calvert here''. He wrapped his arm around Calvert's shoulders and gently guided him away from the elderly couple, leaving them behind with mixed feelings of disdain and admiration.

''Business, you said?'', Calvert asked, shaking in his boots.

Gatsby nodded and stopped walking. He turned towards his new pal and smiled widely.

''The play, Jonathan'', he said. ''It was wonderful. Truly, amazing''.

Jonathan Calvert's head turned an even brighter red. ''Well thank you, Mr Gatsby! That means a whole lot coming from you. I've always-''.

''Thank you. Thanks. Listen, Jonathan. I don't want rush you but – I have to be home soon, before the Mrs grows cold, you see?''. He laughed, and Jonathan laughed along. Jay prided himself on his ability to break ice. He was a talkative man, someone who led the conversation and dominated it, without the person he was speaking to ever thinking so. Holding a conversation truly was a talent.

''So'', Jay continued. ''Let's get down to business. I'd very much like to meet your actress. Eleanora''.

''What, now?''.

Jay nodded. ''You see – I think there's more for her. I think I might be able to expand her horizons. You and I, and her – we can make some wonderful plays come to live. Here, on Broadway, yes. But in the city of angels too… we can take her to Europe. To the highlands. People will love her!''.

''W-why'', the man stammered. He was taken aback. Jay Gatsby, possibly the most important man in the world of arts, wanted to do business with him. He wanted to make plays with him. This could make him a fortune! It could make him famous across the globe!

''Well, old sport? What do you say?''. Jay reached out his hand. Calvert looked, stared for a second, then grabbed it and shook it furiously. ''Most certainly!'', he exclaimed, a smile on his face from ear to ear.

''Wonderful'', Jay agreed. He patted his new associate on the shoulder. ''Absolutely wonderful indeed''.

Of Jonathan Calvert, you could only say that he'd been flabbergasted by the turn his life had just taken. He was an already wealthy and well respected man – but working with Jay Gatsby… now that would be a life changer. Maybe he'd finally be able to invest in horse racing, like he'd always wanted. He could buy a new car for his garage.. maybe buy a home in West Egg. Maybe even close to Jay Gatsby! Maybe they'd become friends!

He was snapped from his daydream by Jay's inquiry.

''Now, where is she?''.

''Huh?''.

''Your actress''.

''Ah, yes. She's backstage. I'll introduce you!''.

''No, thank you – thank you. You have a well-deserved rest, old sport. I think it's best if I meet her alone'', Jay answered, walking towards the stage. He gave his friend a soothing, reassuring smile. Calvert agreed that it'd be right to have some rest. Maybe get a drink, too.

''This way?''.

''Yes, that's right. Right through those doors''.

Jay nodded, gave Jonathan Calvert a wink and moved along through a set of heavy, hard wooden doors. As soon as he disappeared from Calvert's sight, his cool, calm exterior collapsed. Sweat stained his forehead. His heart raced about a hundred miles an hour – he could almost hear it pounding. Around the corner, he heard voices too. He saw lights. Two or three voices wished another goodnight. A breeze came in. A door shut. Jay calmed himself. He forced breath into his lungs and counted. Five seconds. His heart rate slowed down. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, took another breath and started to force his feet forward.

He couldn't remember a time where he'd been so nervous. Both Jack Dawson and Jay Gatsby were calm, collected men. Men who knew what they wanted and knew how to get it. For them, there was no reason to fret about things. But then again, neither of them had ever met a living ghost.


	8. Chapter 8

July 28th, 1922

When he finally saw her, her back turned towards him, her fingers untangling the braids in her hair, Jay was certain his heart would explode. He was certain he'd die right there, on the carpeted floor of this goddamned theatre. He wanted to speak, but his mouth felt as dry as this morning's newspaper, and he swallowed three times before he felt slightly confident. Rather quickly, though, his next problem arose. What do you say to the love of your life, after you thought her to be dead for a decade? I love you? I've missed you? What if they were way past that? What if things had changed? What on earth could possibly convey everything he'd felt in nine years?

Jay swallowed another time.

Rose's red curls fell loose across her back and she stepped aside, into the mirror. Her fingers moved to take out her earrings when in the corner of her eyes, she saw a figure standing just a few feet away from her. The figure had dirty blonde hair and piercing eyes, even in the darkness of this room. Rose realized he looked like somebody she once loved, only older. She squeezed her eyes together while her head struggled to make sense of the situation. Was it-? No. It couldn't be. Immediately after, though, she understood that it _was_ him – and her eyes opened wide, her lungs gasping for air. When she turned around, it became painfully clear that it wasn't a trick of the light or a moment of exhaustion, like she'd thought it to be. There he stood, partially hidden in the shadows of the room, a pained, exhausted look on his face. He wore a suit, instead of a corduroy pants and a linen shirt, and there were wrinkles around the corners of his tired eyes – but it was him.

For what could have been minutes, both stood completely frozen, their hearts racing in their chests, an atmosphere of uncertainty and disbelief circling around them. Finally, Jack stepped from out the shadows. He walked towards her with big, fast paces, his hands reaching out for her and he grabbed her face, terrified of her disappearing in front of his eyes. Without giving it another thought, he pulled her against him and kissed her. Rose froze, ever so shortly, before she regained familiarity with the warmth of his hands and the smell of his body, nearly collapsing as a result. Her hands desperately grabbed at his hair and she tried to pull him closer, tighter up against her body, fearing that if she'd let go – he'd suddenly be gone. But the longer they stayed that way, bodies and lips pressed against each other, the clearer it became that this was real. When the realization finally hit them, it hit hard.

Rose cried. Tears started streaming down her face and Jack tasted their salt. When he pulled back to look at her, Rose cried even harder. She grabbed his face and ran her thumb across his bottom lip, checking if it was really him. ''Jack'', she whispered, and suddenly she laughed, despite the seemingly ever-flowing tears. Jack laughed too, though it sounded hoarse and slightly hysterical. He smiled, pressed another long, hard kiss against her lips and wiped away the tears on her cheeks. ''Hi, Rose'', he whispered against her lips. Then he hugged her, and as she buried her face in his chest, he had to remind himself not to squeeze too tight. Now that they were together, it was hard for him to contain himself. Years and years of emotions and memories came flowing over him like a tidal wave - and he felt like a person he hadn't been in a long, long time.

It took them both a few minutes to accept what had just happened, but when they did, Rose's legs gave in and she had to sit down on the floor. Jack followed, holding on to her hand tightly. Though he tried his hardest, he couldn't get his eyes off her. Her porcelain skin, her green eyes, the red of her hair and the rose of her lips, she was as beautiful as she was when they'd first met. His heart nearly burst.

''Where have you been, Rose?'', he asked, softly caressing her hair. ''Where did you go?''.

''Everywhere. I promised you, remember?''.

Jack smiled; his bottom lip trembled and he swallowed hard. She got away from them. She'd broken free. ''You're alive'', he whispered, more so to himself than to her. ''I tried to find you, Rose. I searched for you that morning! I thought-'', his voice broke, but he forced himself to keep it together. ''I thought you'd drowned''.

''I'm sorry'', she whispered, ''I had to hide, Jack. My mother and Cal, both of them survived and they were looking for me. And I- I couldn't go back to that life, you know that! Not after… not after you''.

''Why didn't you look for me? I searched for you every day. Every day I went out and searched for a trace of you. For God's sake, I've shown your portrait to almost everyone in the city. Please!'', he broke down this time and tears formed in his eyes. Rose had never seen him like this. ''I never stopped searching'', he whispered. ''Why did you?''.

Rose's heart broke. Her hands grabbed his face and she forced him to look at her. ''I thought you were dead. Believe me, please'', she begged, softly shaking him. ''Remember when the ship went down? Do you remember how it drowned you? You weren't wearing a vest, Jack, but I was – and I fought to get to you! I fought to pull you back up, I really did, but I couldn't hold on to your hand. I tried. I tried and I was too weak and you – you disappeared!''.

Both of them were crying now.

''I came back up and all I saw was darkness. I called out for you, I begged for you to please call my name but the screaming was _so_ loud, Jack, I couldn't hear myself think! And then I swam. I started swimming until I couldn't feel my legs and my lungs felt like they were bleeding. I was so cold, I-''. Her hands shook violently. The images that came creeping back into her head terrified her, but she couldn't stop. Words came out like seawater that she coughed back up. Maybe it was, she really didn't know. ''I couldn't do it! I'm so sorry, but I was so cold, Jack. I thought you were dead!''.

Jack swallowed. He saw the look in her eyes. It was regret, it was anger and sadness and despair and absolute terror. He grabbed her, pulled her up against him and tried desperately to stop her from shaking. ''I'm sorry!'', she cried out, her nails digging into his arm. ''I-''.

''It's all right'', he whispered, slowly stroking her hair. ''I believe you''.

Rose nodded and cried. She cried, cried and apologized until she lay like a ragdoll in Jack's arms. Her eyes were swollen and her throat dry. She was empty.

As she lay there, Jack thought about that moment. They'd counted the seconds, fully prepared to be sucked down into nothingness. He'd told her to take a deep breath and he had told her to keep kicking. In that moment, Jack knew that he wasn't wearing a lifejacket and he knew that he would have to fight twice as hard to stay afloat. He thought he could do it. But when that ship went down, it took everything in its path with it – and no matter how hard he had tried to hold on to Rose, he simply wasn't strong enough. He'd floated into darkness, not knowing which side was up or down, not being able to see his own hands in front of his face. But Jack had never been someone to give up and he'd fought for his life. By the time he finally re-emerged above the water, which felt like hours to him, his lungs burned like hellfire and his body was utterly, completely exhausted. He grabbed on to something – or someone, he couldn't remember – and that was it. That was all he remembered.

Now, though, it didn't matter. Rose was here, in his arms. She was safe, she was healthy, and that was all he'd ever wanted for her. As he tried hard to force those dark memories from his mind, Rose lay in his arms, softly breathing – slowly slipping away into a time that was long behind them. The couple sat there, on the floor of Rose's dark dressing room, feeling happier and more confused than they'd ever had in their entire lives.


End file.
